


These Saturday Nights (Revised)

by Guendoleona



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guendoleona/pseuds/Guendoleona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two people search the Commonwealth for revenge and redemption, running from the past and into each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Of

_Day Zero_

She leaned in, shifting slightly to avoid the spring poking out of one of the worn out sofa cushions. They’d been red once. She remembered couch shopping at Fallon’s with Nate, back when getting the house neatly furnished was the biggest thing she had to worry about. The color had faded, like everything else in the Commonwealth.

Gone were the bright orange hues of autumn. It was her favorite season. Winter, with its promise of snowy evenings and warm cider was just around the corner but something about the playful hope of summer lingered in the air. The trees were largely gone and without them the changing of the seasons passed unnoticed. The radiation saw to that. 

She reached for the glass in front of her and savored the light burning sensation the bourbon left at the back of her throat. Raw. Real. A chance to feel something other than the melancholy despair that now haunted every corner of this unfamiliar Boston. 

Sitting here, listening to Magnolia croon softly, her song a heart breaking mix of pain and nostalgia, she could almost see the Boston that was. Busy streets packed with busy people, heading to work and school.

And even now, even after everything that happened, there were still people out for a drink on a Saturday night, enjoying a measure of normalcy in this crazy world. Surrounded by strangers in this dimly lit bar, she could almost forget the last two years. Almost. 

She sensed he was there before she spotted him leaning against the bar, handing over caps to Charlie.

Him. Here. In the Third Rail. Her wild card. 

He headed straight for her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, two glasses in the other and sat down beside her on the couch. She took in the rugged scar that run across his left cheek, the outline of his shoulders beneath the casual white t-shirt and the tilted cap that semi concealed his dark hair. Her eyes drifted downward, towards the knee high boots, a blade expertly tucked in each and then back to the holster on his side. He was the same as before. And yet, not quite. 

He filled the glasses and handed her one, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since he’d sat down. 

Those blue eyes…far bluer than they had a right to be in this land of muted browns and faded reds…Those damn blue eyes looking at her like they had so many times before. This was all wrong. He didn't belong here. Not now. Not ever. 

“Thank you,” she said and knocked the glass back, eyes never leaving his. “What are you doing here Arthur?” Her voice was soft, level, as close to detached as she could get to with him looking at her in that damned way.  
“Looking for you.” Just like that. He knocked back the whiskey and refilled the glasses. 

“How did you find me?” She’d covered her trail, changed faces, changed names. 

“A rumor. Knight Rylan was on patrol near Bunker Hill two nights ago when a mystery bullet hit a courser that was about to get him. He searched the area and found no sign of the shooter. That’s when I realized you hadn’t left.”

“A stray bullet? It could have been anyone.”

“No,” he shook his head, “no one else would put themselves at risk for a Brotherhood Knight.”

“You underestimate the secret sniper league of the Commonwealth," she smiled, reaching for levity. A way to make this, _him_ , no different than any other person out there. He didn't buy it.

“You need to come back Allie. Come home.”

“I can’t.” The last vestiges of control began to slip from her. Her hand, as if it had gained momentum of its own, reached for him, callused fingers gently brushing against his cheek. “You know I can’t do that Arthur.”

“Why?” he barked, his words raw and sharp. “It’s over. The Institute is gone. Come home with me Allie.”

“He’s dead.” she whispered, her hand falling limply to her side “I killed him Arthur. I pointed the gun. I pulled the trigger. He’s dead.”

“You did what you had to,” he said and took her hand in his. She pulled away.

“What I had to? It’s what cowards whisper to themselves so they can sleep at night.”

“No. Cowards use machines to do their bidding while they hide underground. You did what you had to.”

“What I had to,” she said bitterly. “What I chose to do. It makes no difference. Go home Arthur, go back to the Prydwen and don’t look for me again.”

“You still have duties, Paladin.” 

“I resigned.”

“And I didn’t accept your resignation.” He reached over and took her hand again. To his surprise she didn’t pull away this time but instead held his eyes, a mix of pain, fire and defiance all fighting for dominance. “You don’t have to do this alone Allie.”

“What’s the point?” She whispered. “My world is gone. I don’t belong here Arthur, I never did. And now, the only person that tied me to that world is dead because of me. The Commonwealth boogyman is gone. It’s time for me to go too. I’m not needed anymore.” 

He gripped her hand harder, willing her to stay. Six months. He’d spent six month looking for her, listening to every whisper, following every sign. No one had seen her since that day. And then, when two days ago Rylan was mysteriously saved, Arthur felt that she was finally within reach.

He hadn’t gone through hell just to watch her slip through his fingers again. 

“I need you,” he whispered.


	2. Blue Eyes

_Eighteen Months Ago_

“Can I get you a drink?” He said softly, blue eyes, the bluest she’d ever seen, firmly fixed on hers.

Allie nodded, holding his gaze as she reached over and took the glass, her fingers gently brushing his. She took a long, slow sip then put the glass back on the table. A drop of whiskey trickled down from her lip and onto her chin.

“Thank you,” she whispered, the sound barely escaping her lips. She wiped the stray drop and assessed him. “I’ve not seen you here before. You with one of the caravans?”

He wasn’t. His back was too straight, his gaze too steady. He didn’t have the desperate look of someone who risked his life daily to protect scrap.

“No,” he said, “I’m not a guard.”

“A merchant then?” she grinned. He was as much a merchant as she was. “Here to trade for the best goods Bunker Hill has to offer?”

“You could say that,” his face broke into a smile and she got the distinct feeling that it wasn’t something he was used to doing often. “And you?”

“Yeah, me too.”

They drank, assessing each other between shots while his right leg, her left, tapped rhythmically in an off kilter fashion. An old world way to remain centered in the moment.

Tap. She noted the tenseness in his shoulders. Tap. He noticed the way her hand was never further than a few inches from a weapon. Tap. She took in the old scar running down the left side of his face. Tap. He caught a glimpse of the top of a tattoo on her right shoulder.

Tap. He drank. Tap. She drank.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You like what you see so far?” She smiled lightly, her eyes soft. He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned over and topped her glass with the last of the whiskey. It was his turn to brush her fingers. Her turn to feel a light tingle down her spine.

Tap. He was checking her reaction, the dance between them changing tempo. His hand lingered there, a second too long and yet not long enough. Tap. Her eyes left his face and wandered down, settling on the bull barreled .44 on his hip.

With a smile still playing on her lips, she drew her own side arm, ejected the magazine and placed it on the table, grip toward him. It was a beautiful silenced 10mm that reminded her of the old world ppk, used by suave film stars to take down equally fantastical villains. The kind that wouldn’t last a day in this brave new world. It was her favorite. Had been since Deacon quietly handed it to her the day they found Tommy dead. The day she’d taken his name as a way of sending a silent thanks to the beyond.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she breathed.

He pulled the .44 out and carefully placed it on the table after making sure it was empty. She picked it up gently, fingers lightly running over it, admiring the tight fit of the slide, the beautifully crafted grip, its weight...

“It’s beautiful. I’ve not seen one in this condition in a while.” She handed it back and he holstered it before picking up hers. Deliverer, she’d called it. Gifting death.

“Unusual.” He muttered as he turned it. “May I?” She paused for a second, before nodding. He swiftly, expertly, took it apart.

“How’s the recoil?” He asked, noting the lightness.

“Surprisingly good.” She showed him the work she’d done on the barrel, extending it slightly before adding the suppressor, the weight of it dissipating most of the recoil.

“You know my rule about stripping guns right in front of my stand!” Old Man Stockton walked over to them, his tone half amusement, half resignation. “Upsets my customers.”

“Then are they really the kind of customers you’d want?” she grinned.

"Any customer is better than no customers." Stockton shook his head and headed for the bar.

The conversation that passed between them had a well practiced rhythm.

“You strip guns here often?” Blue eyes asked.

“I find it relaxing,” she shrugged. “Sometimes all you need after days of being out there” she waved towards the Commonwealth “is a good drink and a gun to clean.” She leaned down, pulled out a leather satchel from her pack and carefully laid its contents out on the table. Clean cloths. Oil. A few select grades of sandpaper. Screwdrivers. Odds and ends. A second bottle of whiskey.

“You want to join me?

He poured the drinks and they sat side by side, enjoying the peace brought by the repetitive action. After almost an hour, he broke the silence.

“I haven’t done this in a long time.”He said, adjusting the slide back into place.

“What, cleaned your gun?” She chuckled. "I'm not sure you should be telling me something that personal yet. We've only just met." Her easy laugh was pleasantly disarming and he shook his head, allowing himself to feel the kind of levity he hadn’t experienced in a long time. A rare chance to get lost in a moment.

“Found the time to just… be.”

“Why not?" she asked.

“It feels like a needless indulgence when there are so many other things that need... doing." He shrugged and his eyes wandered back to his fire arm, now glinting by the light of the lantern.

“It’s not an indulgence,” she said after a while. “Doing this… it can put other things in perspective. Sometimes you’ve got to get your own shit together before you can do anything else. Plus, if you don’t you’ll likely get your head blown up and that…” her smile spread wider but this time, it didn't quite hit her eyes "is something to be avoided if possible. Can't trade without a head now, can you?”

"Do you often offer advice to complete strangers?”

"You aren't a stranger." She said softly and for a moment she looked at him, eyes opened wide, like she could see into his soul. Then her eyes narrowed again, the corners of her mouth shot up and the moment was gone. "We've had two bottles of whiskey. I'm pretty sure in some places that would makes us family."

“Or people with a drinking problem,” he countered.

“Mine is better,” she insisted, a smile still playing on her lips. “Whatever we are, after two bottles I think you owe me your name, my merchant friend.”

“Roger.”

“Ray.”

“And that’s the name your mother gave you?”

“As much as yours whispered Roger to you in the cradle. But, it’s good enough for now.”

“Good enough for now,” he agreed.

A man approached them, lilting from side to side as he walked. “Whisp,” he purred, throwing his arms around her while ignoring her companion. “Mummy needs us.”

“Meet you at the bar?” the man nodded and stumbled in that direction.

“Thanks for this,” she smiled. Maybe it was the moment, his eyes or the two bottles of whiskey. Maybe it’s because it was April 5th. She leaned in and gently kissed his cheek. “ I hope to see you again Roger.”


	3. Four Saturdays

_Seventeen Months Ago_

When he climbed the ladder, she was already there, sitting crosslegged on the mattress, a rifle across her knees, surrounded by cleaning supplies. He’d seen her friend, the one that never seemed too far away, sprawled in a chair at the bar, in an animated conversation with one of the caravan guards.

Something about that man didn’t sit right with Arthur. Everything from his merry demeanor to that damned smoothed back hair and perpetual sunglasses made his skin itch. 

_Arthur._ The name he’d given when she introduced him three weeks ago. He’d grinned before shaking his hand firmly, as if this was some joke only he was privy to. If he didn’t know better… but no, that couldn’t be it. A coincidence. It’s not like the name Arthur was rare. 

“You are here,” she said softly, not looking up from the rifle. 

“Missed me?” he said lightly and regretted it immediately because she looked up at him with those damned eyes, a smile playing on her lips. Today was going to be the day he told her, the day he stopped playing this childish game. Later. There’d be plenty of time later.

“I brought this to show you,” she said, still smiling, and handed him the rifle. “It’s my current favorite, been working on some mods for it I thought you might appreciate.”

He’d let it slip he’d trained as a sniper. Just left out the fact it was for 6 months. He took the rifle and run his fingers along the stock, taking note of the weight and the feel of it in his hand. 

“It shoots .50?” He says incredulously. “Most snipers I know use .308.”

“I started off with that but I needed more power. This bad boy can take out most targets with a single headshot. Good for an in and out kind of job.”

“That’s probably more to do with the talent of the person shooting it.” He smiled slightly. If she was relaxed, she might listen to him when he finally told her. His smile had nothing to do with the way she looked at him, under those eyelashes, like he was the damned best sight she’d seen all day. 

She took another long sip of whiskey and eyed him thoughtfully.

“What was the last shot you made?”

He knew the kind she meant. The kind that took planning and taking the windspeed and the target’s movement into account. That had you accounting for exits and slipping in and out before anyone knew what was happening.The kind he hadn’t made since leaving the Capitol Wasteland.

“Longer than I’d like,” he said, voice dripping with regret.

“What are you doing for the rest of the night?”

“I…” he stumbled over her words, trying to decipher the meaning. 

“There’s someone I’ve promised Kessler I’d take out. Crusher. Leader of a gang of super mutants who’ve been terrorizing some abandoned apartments near here. He’s got his sights set on all the territory between here and Goodneighbour. The traders? Well, they’d like to discourage that sort of initiative. You in?” 

He hesitated. This wasn’t the sort of thing they were meant to be doing. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. 

“Surely a merchant like you understands the importance of a clear trade route between here and Goodneighbor Roger?” She was smiling. Over the last four weeks she’d never questioned his story and yet…

“Yes” he said before all the good reasons of why he shouldn’t could dissuade him. Before he had a chance to remember who he was.

Her smile deepened, turning into the kind of smile that made him weak in the knees, and grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet. They were the same height, eyes at perfect level. The empty space between them felt…dense. Full with something that made him want to pull her close. To…

She took a step closer towards him. There were mere inches between them now and he could feel the heat radiating from her body. He could smell her scent and she smelled of freedom and dust and fire. And as quickly as she’d closed the distance between them she took a step backwards, picked up the rifle that was resting across the far side of the mattress and, adjusting her armor, went down the ladder. 

He slung her rifle over his shoulder, grabbed the leather sniper bag she’d left beside it and followed her towards the road. 

She lead him to the top of one of the nearby buildings, moving slowly and quietly, making sure nothing and no-one saw or heard them, then crossed a few roofs until she stopped and sunk to her heels. He crouched beside her and she pointed towards a light a few rooftops ahead. 

“He is there. He usually has four others with him, some patrolling the stairs and some at the bottom but this is where he waits for any stragglers looking for a place to spend the night.”

She spoke with a quiet urgency and the kind of level to her voice that showed she didn’t want to contemplate their meaning too deeply because thinking about certain things too much… thinking about anything that went on in the Commonwealth too much… It was enough to drive anyone over the edge.

“If you line up the shot from the roof, I can sneak down there and cause a diversion. You can pick them off from here, one by one. Then I’ll meet you back at the Bunker?”

He nodded, visualizing the best position to take up. 

“Be careful,” he said softly after her as she was about to take the fire escape down onto the street. 

“Always am.” She grinned. 

Arthur moved forward slowly, making sure he didn’t disturb any of the loose tiles that no one had bothered to fix in over two hundred years. He took up position behind a semi-standing chimney and set up the rifle, lying down on his stomach as he steadied himself. 

Crusher was easily recognizable by the necklace of femurs around his neck. Those were the remnants of his dinner that weren’t hanging from the numerous meat bags that litter the place. Trophies. It made him sick. 

Arthur watched him through the scope as the mutant completed the patrol once, then twice, and as Crusher paused for the third time to observe the Commonwealth, he pulled the trigger, releasing the breath he’d been holding. The bullet tore through his head and Crusher fell, knocked of balance, landing flat on the street. 

That’s when he saw her throw a few grenades into the crumbling building, drawing the super mutants’ attention to her as she darted from cover to cover, firing shots with the semi-automatic rifle he’d seen her clean last week.

He picked them off one by one, causing further confusion. The mutants couldn’t tell where all the shots are coming from. In a few short, bloody minutes, they were dead and silence settled over the rooftops once again. 

He picked up the rifle, policing his brass by habit, and headed back to the Hill. He waited by the steps, pacing.

“That was a great shot.” She was standing beside him, a few bloodstains on her clothes, but otherwise unharmed. “Had to skirt around some raiders on the way back. How was she?”

“Excellent condition- and that trigger pull? It’s one of the most responsive rifles I’ve ever handled.”

“A soldier is only as good as the weapon in their hand.”

“A soldier,” he said softly.

Danse hadn’t said much more about her than she was a mercenary that handled a gun exceptionally well. Someone they should have on their side. And since then, she’d helped out more than a few Brotherhood patrols from tight spots all without asking for anything in return. Then there were the rumors. A child, lost. A vendetta against the Institute. Someone with this kind of determination, with this kind of pain… She was the wild card he needed to win the war. 

Four weeks after she helped Danse reach and his team reach out to Boston Airport, he realized he had to meet her. He had to get her on their side. A wild card had turned Project Purity around. And yet, he couldn’t get the words out.

“My mother. My father.” She said softly, leaning against the wall.“ My husband. I guess I never had much of a choice. I tried walking a different path for a while but this… this always found me.”

“Are they…” He said, only half a question.

“Dead. Yours?”

“Dead.”

“Well aren’t we a matching pair?” She smiled mirthlessly and turned to face him.“Enough sharing for tonight?” She said, her face now mere inches from his, her eyes boring into his, and his knees felt weak again. 

“Agreed.”

“Now that we’ve done a contract together, why don’t you tell me why you are here _Roger_?”


	4. Mercenaries

_Fifteen months ago_

“You ready?” She said, scope to her eye, torso pressed to the earth, rifle propped up on a crumbling wall.

“Almost.” He was stretched out next to her, supporting himself on his elbows, checking his final alignment. “Ready.”

“On three.” She whispered and they fired, bullets tearing through the air in tandem. In the distance, two raiders fell off the ledge of a building, their bodies tumbling down toward the street. A third woke up suddenly, as if sensing the loss of his comrades, before he felt a sudden warmth in his chest and the world turned black. 

Rifles slung over their shoulders, they cautiously made their way toward the heart of the building. The front door was locked tightly, thick lock in place to keep scum and unlikely saviors out and away. A useless deterrent. 

Allie pulled out a bobby pin and patiently worked it until it yielded a satisfactory click. Keeping them out was going to take more than a thick lump of metal and few scattered frag mines. 

They cleared the building methodically, sweeping each room from the bottom to the top. A well practiced dance, though one they’d never done together. Raiders fell, the sound of gunfire reverberating through the crumbling walls causing them to act like the animals they were. 

They found the merchants near the top, huddled in a corner, arms and legs tightly bound, uncertain eyes begging for help. 

“Don’t worry,” Allie whispered as she reached them and began removing gags and untying hands while _Roger_ swept the room for explosives one last time. “Kessler sent us.” The name was enough to elicit a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you,” one of the merchants whispered, his voice still thick with fear. “I didn’t think I’d ever make it out of here… They… They said…” Involuntary tears pooled in his eyes. 

“It’s going to be alright.” Allie smiled with firm certainty that reached her eyes. She took his hand and squeezed it gently before turning to look at each of them in turn. “We’ll escort you back to Bunker Hill now. Grab a weapon and let’s go.”

***

“You brought them back.” Kessler’s face was a mask of disbelief. 

“That was the deal wasn't it?” Allie grinned, an expression not often seen behind the high walls of Bunker Hill. 

“It’s just…well, it ain’t a thing that happens here often, that’s all.” She pressed a pouch of caps to Allie. “Here, you earned this. And, I owe you one.”

“I’ll be seeing you around.” Allie turned and headed for the small living space above the bar. _Roger_ followed closely behind. Sitting on the dirty mattress, she divided the caps and passed him half. “Your share.”

“That’s not why I helped you.” He said firmly, re-starting their standing argument. 

“And I don’t know what caravan you run with _Roger_ ,” she emphasized the false name he continued to wear, “but here at Bunker Hill, we pay our mercenaries.” 

Mercenary. He despised the word. Killers for hire. No honor, no code. No vision. The only question they asked was how much. No Maxson had ever been a mercenary but right now, he wasn’t a Maxson. 

Three months. It had been three months of weekends dedicated to honing his secret weapon against the Institute. Only, the weapon itself wasn't aware. No one knew what or where or how he spent those nights. He had their trust. Was it warranted? 

“ _Roger_?”

“Yes?”

She looked at him, eyes boring into his, for what seemed like eternity. Not at, through. Like she could see all that was, is, could be. Like she was weighing every tiny spectrum of his being, measuring their worth. 

Without saying a word, without lowering her gaze, she rummaged through the leather sack in front of her, pulled out a tightly wrapped packet and placed it beside him. 

“For you. Don’t open it until after I’ve gone.” There was a strange finality to her words, an ending he could not see. She reached for him, taking his hand in hers. A gesture heavy with familiarity.

“I’ve…It’s…” In the last three months he’d seen her wounded, bleeding from a stray raider bullet had skimmed her left thigh. She’d been exhausted after a twelve hour trek through super mutant territory. Hungry. Angry. Indignant. In all that time, she’d never been lost for words. Not once. “It’s for you,” she finished. 

Allie wasn’t sure what it was she felt. He threw her balance. When he was around the normal flow of energy faltered- up was down and words failed her. Deacon had mentioned something about it the first time they'd met him. She'd dismissed it. 

_I know who he is,_ she'd said, _and now I want to know what he wants._ After three months, she still wasn't sure. 

“It’s been fun,” her lips curled up in a smile. “Take care.”

She pressed her feet into the ground, forcing the leg muscles to obey her. He followed suit, sensing the shift in the atmosphere and got up from the mattress. In the cramped space above the bar, their bodies filled the space almost completely. 

She had to brush against him reach the stairs. Their bodies were close. Too close. Torsos brushed against each other, blue eyes locked together. Her hand reached up involuntarily, brushing his cheek. He smelled of whiskey and gunpowder and blood. He smells...alive. 

Her body moved on its own accord, learning in until her lips were pressed to his with gentle uncertainty. He responded, arm wrapping itself against her waist, pulling her closer to him, deepening the kiss. Her tongue brushed against his upper lip before plunging in a fevered exploration of his mouth .He sighed against her, a soft groan escaping his lips, the distance between them all but gone.

And then, they remembered. Allie pulled away first as if burned, her back hitting the wall behind her. He didn’t move, his eyes silently asking the question his mouth couldn’t form. The question that had been building between them for the last three months and now filled the room. 

“This… we can’t.” She said reluctantly, pressing further back as if the shack’s timber walls had the power to swallow her whole. “Take care Arthur.”

His name. The name he hadn’t given. He stood frozen as she slipped down the ladder and disappeared into the night. She’d known his name and it didn’t surprise him. He knew hers. 

He reached down and picked up the package, carefully untying the brown string holding the soft cloth together. A silenced stainless steel 10mm sat inside. The words _Ad Victoriam_ curled themselves around the barrel in spidery script. 

A note fell by his feet. He leant down and picked it up. A single scrawled word greeted him. 

_Salvation._

**Author's Note:**

> I started this back in January but the story got a little bit away from me. Now I'm back determined to finish telling this tale :) 
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
